Rawpocalypse

12 - Nightmare

Young Hanna Ekman waded through knee-high stalks of golden wheat, a warm summer breeze whipping her thin, blonde hair across her face. A bright-red Irish setter bounced playfully at her side.

Her boisterous canine friend unexpectedly threw its weight against her, toppling her giggling to the ground. Copper flopped down at her feet, stretching his soft underside over her ankles, panting happily through a dog's smile.

"Copper," she said, scolding the pooch. A flash of clarity struck her mute. She didn't have a dog. She never had a dog. She'd been raised in a small flat in the crowded city. Her parents wouldn't let her have a dog.

An instant later, as dreams often do, the scene morphed. She now sat on a braded rug in her tiny bedroom. In place of Copper, a long-haired Burmese cat lay draped over her knees. In similar agitation, she reprimanded the feline. "Mister Beauregard, you've grown too heavy to treat me as your pillow."

Mr. Beauregard licked his fur inconsiderately, his inexplicable size becoming a nuisance.

"Seriously!" she shouted, thrashing her legs uselessly. The large cat grew larger, pressing her legs painfully to the floor. "Get off me!"

A huge lion suddenly appeared in her lap, drawing its long tongue between its claws, its thick, tangled mane crusty with the blood of a recent kill. Flies buzzed around the beastly king, the foul odor of raw meat on his hot breath. He opened his massive jaws to swallow her whole. At the bottom of his dark throat, Dr. Haugen stood cartoonishly waving back.

Before the massive tusks could clamp down around her, she jerked awake, screaming. The reality she faced fared no better. She screamed again, louder. A large crimson blob of raw meat covered her feet and ankles, pinning her to the hard floor of the laboratory.

Hanna tugged with all her strength, fighting to free herself, both legs buried to the knees. Her sweaty palms slid uselessly on the polished tile. She threw her palms against the meat and pushed. The thick mass barely gave; it was solid muscle. At a half meter tall, it seemed to weigh a ton.

The whole mound wobbled of its own accord, and a ripple of motion brought it centimeters farther onto her kneecaps. Crushing pain brought another scream from her lungs.

Above her, the raw meat hung from the open vault, drooping to the floor like a grotesque tongue licking her bare legs. She tugged at her skirt, pushing it as far down her thighs as possible.

The bulk of the overgrown meat was slowly sliding from the vault, millimeter by millimeter. Panic rushed through Hanna's veins. If the blob slid completely from the high opening, it would crush her entire body in one quick and deadly blow.

Hot tears blurred her vision. The horror of Kjell Haugen examining her flattened, naked body was unbearable. "Tisk, tisk, tisk," he would say. "The poor fool."

She pounded at the meat, fist after fist. "Get off me! Get off me!"

It didn't listen. It wouldn't listen.

She stretched an arm toward the cart of surgical instruments, its wheels several body-lengths away. It might as well have been in Budapest.

Her eyes darted to the nearby mop handle. Stretching every ligament from her fingers to her hips, she snapped at the wooden rod with scissor fingers. A centimeter more and she could touch it. She inhaled deeply, putting more distance between her vertebrae. The tip of her middle finger grazed the wood.

Dammit. It wasn't enough.

Angrily, she bent farther at the waist. Pop! Her hip dislocated. The pain was instant, but short lived. Her fingers pinched the mop handle and she drew it to her body selfishly.

The raw meat wiggled closer. There was no telling how much of the blob held it suspended above her. She whirled the mop handle and pried at the space between her knees. It was no use.

Changing approach, she stabbed the mound of meat and gripped the rod like climbing a rope. With white knuckles, she muscled the wooden handle, and it shook with the strain of her strength. A miniscule sound of releasing suction spurted around her legs. Her numb lower extremities gave no sign of movement, but more of her knees became visible. She rested only briefly, then summoned strength for another drag.

Hand over hand, tug after tug, she pulled herself to the top of the map handle. The final pull came easily, her feet free of the beast. She let go of the rod, and slid quickly away on both palms, her useless legs sliding after her.

A safe distance away, she gathered nerve to assess her injuries. Surely her feet must be flattened and deformed like road-kill. A brief glance was horrifying. Both feet pointed directly outward, pressed abnormally to the floor.

She forced another look, longer this time. Her bare toes wiggled at her command, but no sensation came with the motion, giving the air of having prosthetic limbs. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Feeling would soon return, and with it pain.

She eyed the meat monster that was slowly slithering from its cocoon. The wooden rod jutting from its head swayed to and fro with each ripple of motion like the feeler of a giant slug.

With sudden haste, the bulk of the meat slid from the vault and dropped toward the floor. It doubled over on itself, sending the wooden mop handle straight up. The upper half toppled onto the rod, impaling itself with a thunderous thud.

The blob lay motionless, bent in half, skewered through the center, a giant shish kabob.